on-ship; and that mamma sent as a present to Uncle George.'

'I prefer the parrot that has fallen to my share,' observed the Doctor.

It was by this time perched beside him, looking perfectly at ease and
thoroughly at home. There was something very amusing in the aspect of
the little man; he so completely recalled his mother's humming-bird
title by the perfect look of finished porcelain perfection that even a
journey from the Antipodes with only gentleman nursemaids had not
destroyed. The ringleted rich brown hair shone like glossy silk, the
cheeks were like painting, the trim well-made legs and small hands and
feet looked dainty and fairy-like, yet not at all effeminate; hands and
face were a healthy brown, and contrasted with the little white collar,
the set of which made Ethel exclaim, 'Just look, Daisy, that's what I
always told you about Meta's doings. Only I can't understand
it.--Dickie, have the fairies kept you in repair ever since mamma
dressed you last?'

'We haven't any fairies in New Zealand,' he replied; 'and mamma never
dressed me since I was a baby!'

'And what are you now?' said the Doctor.

'I am eight years old,' said this piece of independence, perfectly well
mannered, and au fait in all the customs of the tea-table; and when the
meal was over, he confidentially said to his aunt, 'Shall I come and
help you wash up? I never break anything.'

Ethel declined this kind offer; but he hung on her hand and asked if he
might go and see the schoolroom, where papa and Uncle Harry used to
blow soap-bubbles. She lighted a candle, and the little gentleman
showed himself minutely acquainted with the whole geography of the
house, knew all the rooms and the pictures, and where everything had
happened, even to adventures that Ethel had forgotten.

'It is of no use to say there are no fairies in New Zealand,' said Dr.
May, taking him on his knee, and looking into the blue depths of
Norman's eyes. 'You have been head-waiter to Queen Mab, and
perpetually here when she made you put a girdle round the earth in
forty minutes.'

'Papa read that to the boys, and they said it was stupid and no use,'
said Dickie; 'but papa said that the electric telegraph would do it.'

The little cavalier appeared not to know what it was to be at a loss
for an answer, and the joint letter from his parents explained that his
precocious quickness was one of their causes for sending him home. He
was so deft and useful as to be im